


Cups and Swords

by keyflight790



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Bedsharing, Getting Together, M/M, More tags to follow, Quidditch World Cup, UST
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-11
Updated: 2019-06-11
Packaged: 2020-04-24 15:42:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19176361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keyflight790/pseuds/keyflight790
Summary: Neville can't wait to see his best friend play the World Cup. He also can't wait to see what happens between he and the Portkey-hitchhiker he picks up along the way.Or the one where Neville's such a clumsy bloke he practically falls into Charlie Weasley's strong arms.





	Cups and Swords

**Author's Note:**

  * For [digthewriter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/digthewriter/gifts).



> Hey DIG! I'm so happy I met you through this fandom, and I love your love for this pairing!!! I really hope you enjoy this ficlet! I have two more chapters planned, but not sure when I'll be able to write them so I'm closing up this fic for now. 
> 
> Rating and tags may change if I can ever get around to the other chapters!
> 
> Thank you to MaesterChill for your betawork!

Ginny had been with the Holyhead Harpies for four years. She wasn’t the youngest, or the strongest, or even the fastest, but she was nimble, able to weave in and out of broomsticks and Bludgers, her tiny frame perfect for sneaking the Quaffle over and into the goal. 

She’d improved so much since her days at Hogwarts, and Neville should know. He’d been at every game, wearing his green and gold, cheering her on. 

So of course, Neville would be there when her team finally made it to the World Cup. He had his knapsack packed and his Portkey, a smashed metal can, held tightly in his hand, ready to feel that pull behind his belly button and to land with an assumed tumble outside the Cup grounds. 

“Wait!” Neville heard a voice call from the end of his street. “Neville, wait!” 

He squinted into the early morning sun. “Ron?” he called out, noticing the red hair, the stocky build.

“Charlie,” the man panted as he jogged the rest of the way to Neville. “Dad said I could probably catch a— oh,” he stopped, staring at the can as it began to glow green. “Don’t mind me,” he added, grinning as his hand grappled at the can.

Neville stared in disbelief, first at the gorgeous man in front of him, and then at the glowing light peeking between their fingers. Charlie’s pinkie overlapped his thumb, and it felt electric, just that small touch. Or the can was burning through his fingers as it pulled them out of dreary London and into a grassy knoll just outside of Sussex.

When they landed, Neville immediately fell into a roll that left him face-first in the grass. Charlie, who landed softly with both feet meeting earth, held out his hand and hoisted Neville off the ground. 

“Charlie,” Neville said, eyes darting from his hand in the mans strong grip to his chiseled face. “I recognise you from, well…”

“Yeah. You were covered in more soot than dirt that day,” Charlie laughed. “Still have the sword?”

Neville ran his hand over the back of his neck, the same embarrassed motion he did every time someone brought up his part in the war. “Bill took it. The, er, goblins wanted it back.”

“Right, right,” Charlie nodded. He reached out and brushed a bit of weedling from Neville’s shoulder, then motioned towards the field of tents. “Well, shall we? Reckon Dad’s tent is around here somewhere.”

Neville swallowed hard, and turned to follow Charlie as they weaved through tent after tent. Arthur would be there this weekend, and of course Luna, who would never miss a chance to support her girlfriend. He knew the tent was big, bigger than it looked, but still. He hadn’t expected... _ other _ guests to be in attendance.

Other guests with great arses.

He tried not to stare as Charlie walked over rocks and blankets and various other belongings, the back of his shirt rising every time he leaned forward, his trousers growing tight around his thighs as he lunged. By the time they reached Arthurs tent, Neville was sweating, breathing heavy, and he wasn’t sure he could blame any of it on their brisk walk.

Arthur gave him a strong pat on the back, and he hugged Luna, dancing her into a quick twirl before finally entering the tent and dropping his bag.

The tent was small. So very small.

“Arthur,” Neville asked, trying not to sound rude, “I thought you had room for all of us?”

“Oh yes, yes,” Arthur nodded, motioning from one corner to the other. “After we leant the tent to Ron for their, erm, long camping trip, we never did get it back. Suppose I can’t blame them for losing it somewhere between falling off of a dragon and defeating Voldemort.”

“Freeing an inhumanely treated dragon, and I think this guy over here helped with the whole killing a villain thing.” Charlie ruffled a hand in Neville’s hair and—fuck—he moaned, his body leaning into the touch. 

Panicking, Neville dared a glance to Charlie, who despite some pink in his cheeks looked otherwise unfazed. 

“Right,” Arthur agreed. “Yes, good on you, Neville. Er, way to slay and all that.” He gave Neville a quick smile. “So, Luna and Ginny are over there, and I figured you two could take the back room? I’ll sleep right here,” he motioned to a weaved contraption in the middle of the room. “Muggles call this a hammock.”

“Looks cosy,” Neville offered an encouraging smile. “So there’s two beds in the back there?”

“Just one,” Arthur answered. “But I bet I could whittle together another one of these hammocks with some rope and maybe a bit of metal, if only I had brought my blowtorch, it would be perfect…”

“No need, Arthur,” Neville said quickly. 

“Yeah, Dad. Neville and I’ll be fine sharing some space. Won’t we Nev?”

Charlie shot him a wink, but Neville could only answer sheepishly. “Yeah, we’ll be fine.”

“Great!” Arthur exclaimed. “Now, we are in need of some wood for the fire. I brought these matches,” he opened a box, sending little sticks everywhere. “Oh dear.”

“We’ll go get some wood, dad,” Charlie laughed, grabbing Neville’s hand and pulling him out of the tent.

“Sorry to crash your Portkey,” he said as they started down the narrow path to a collection of trees. 

“No matter,” Neville answered. Charlie was still holding his hand, and it felt like his entire arm was tingling as he tried to keep up. 

“So that’s where you live, eh?” Charlie asked, as he stepped onto a smooth rock. Neville eyed it warily, and clutched Charlie’s hand harder, knowing how slippery the surface was bound to be. 

“In London? Yeah. It’s nice, backyard is big enough for my garden.”

“Does your girlfriend like it?”

Neville blushed. “No girlfriend.”

“Boyfriend, then?” Neville wasn’t sure but it felt like Charlie squeezed his hand when he asked.

“No boyfriend either.”

“You can’t tell me that sword-wielding Longbottom is currently single.”

Neville blushed, shrugging. “I won’t tell you then?”

Charlie laughed again, pulling Neville closer as they reached the clearing. 

“Just how big is your sword?” he asked, leaning against a tree, his eyes running up and down Neville’s frame appraisingly.

“The sword of Gryffindor?”

“It certainly is,” Charlie winked again. He flicked his wrist, pulling Neville against his chest. Neville fell forward, bracing himself with one hand on Charlie’s chest, the other falling dangerously close to Charlie’s—

“I see you’ve found my sword,” Charlie straightened him up and twisted the pair so Neville was pressed against the tree. “Although I generally refer to it as my Norwegian Ridgeback.”

“Why is that?” Neville could barely whisper. His entire being was focused on Charlie’s lips hovering over his ear, and his hardening length pressing into Neville’s hip.

“It doesn’t mind a hunt, especially if a lion’s involved.”


End file.
